Chapter 2
He didn't run. That was worse. He walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, like he had all night. Each step made the patterned rug muffle then reveal itself. Past the corner of the desk. Past the chair. Toward the threshold where the curtain hung.
The woman's hand tightened on my shirt. I could feel her knuckles through the fabric. She wasn't breathing now. Neither was I.
I shifted my weight back an inch, and the wood behind me gave a faint sigh. The man stopped. He was maybe eight feet away, backlit by the lamp, face in shadow. He tilted his head.
"You hear that?"
The man at the desk said, "House settles."
"Stay silent," the woman had told me before. I stayed silent now because I had no other choice. The velvet in front of us moved. Just a little. A draft from the hallway, or the man's movement pushing air. The edge fluttered.
The man at the doorway reached out. Not for the curtain. For the light switch on our side of the wall. His fingers found it. I saw the pale back of his hand.
She moved first. Her other hand found mine in the dark and squeezed hard, a warning. Don't. I understood. If he flipped that switch, the alcove light would hit the velvet from behind and show two silhouettes clear as paper cutouts.
The second man called from the office, "Victor keeps a safe behind the portrait. I need a blade."
The man at the doorway paused. He looked over his shoulder. That half-second was enough. The woman exhaled, slow, and with her body nudged me sideways along the wall, away from the doorway slit and deeper into the alcove shadow. There was a narrow gap between the paneling and the curtain rod where the wall indented — an old servant's nook I'd forgotten existed. We slid into it, fabric folding around us, our faces now inches apart, her uniform collar white against the dark.
The man's hand dropped from the switch. He turned back to the office. "Hurry up."
I closed my eyes. The pain along my ribs flared when I twisted. I had to bite down to keep quiet. She felt me flinch and her palm pressed more firmly against my chest, not to hold me back now but to steady me. Her breathing was back, shallow and fast, against my neck.
They went back to the desk. I could hear paper sliding, a drawer being forced. The man beneath the portrait grunted as he tried to lever it.
"We don't have long," one said. "If Marino survived, this place gets crowded."
The woman's eyes were on mine in the dark. Close enough I could see the flecks of lighter brown in her irises. She mouthed one word: move.
I shook my head. Move where? The hallway outside the alcove led to the main stairs, open and exposed. The office led to them. We were boxed in.
She tipped her head toward the far end of the alcove, where the velvet met the wall paneling and a thin line of baseboard shadow suggested a door I hadn't noticed. A service door, painted over, its handle flush with the wood. She had known it was there. I hadn't.
The man in the office said clearly, "Found something."
Silence. Then papers shuffling faster.
May you like
We had to decide. Stay and risk the curtain being pulled, or try that door and risk the click it would make. She was already deciding for me, her fingers laced through mine, pulling.
I nodded. Her hand found the flush handle. She pressed.
